


A Serving Man

by Fenhello



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 69, And phrenology is bullshit, Blow Job, But mostly porn, Complex Consent Issues, F/M, Hand Job, Near but not in beds, porn without plot kind of, skulls - Freeform, there's a bit of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 22:55:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20182081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fenhello/pseuds/Fenhello
Summary: "This was staggeringly simple. When one eased into it, when it was accepted, it was the easiest thing in the world. Easy and wonderful.Yet complicated and enormous. All at the same time. "AKA- Lavellan talks about skulls and then gets some head.





	A Serving Man

The topic of conversation had turned- and honestly, she had no idea how- to _skulls _. 

There they were, in an Orlesian nobleman’s dining room, flanked by walls the colour of rich cream, chandeliers dripping from the ceiling like glistening tears and fine porcelain set at the table. There she was- briefed by Josephine on the appropriate subjects and questions:

_ How is your mother’s health? _

_ I hear the hunting in these parts is good this time of year. _

_ You have such beautiful apple orchards. Are they hard to maintain? _

_ If we close the rifts on your lands may we please, please have access to your connections in Val Royeaux? A bit (a lot) of money would be nice too. _

Skulls had emphatically not been on the list.

“The differences in physiognomy and phrenology are quite remarkable when you get a chance to really look at the skulls,” The Duke de Beauplaisier continued, leaning in so that she could feel his wine-sticky breath tickling the tips of her ears. 

“Oh,” was all she managed to that. Preferring not to think about studying the skulls she had seen piled in bandit’s camps, on corpses of families in the Hinterlands or the bones of soldiers on the Exalted Plains. And preferring to believe he was only this close because the table was lousy with nobles, all talking over one another animatedly and he just wanted to be heard. 

“The elf- for example- has a surprising amount in common with the order Leporidae. The cranium is smaller and houses a much simpler brain, whilst the brow is ill-defined and the eyes are set far apart- such as you might find in animals whose purpose is to be preyed upon.”

Her_ ill-defined brow _ and _ far apart eyes _were safely hidden underneath a mask so she could have frowned and gotten away with it. But she was terrified her posture would give her away if she even dared. So she stayed smiling, concentrating on cutting the meat on her plate. 

“I do enjoy elf skulls immensely,” the Duke went on. Perhaps it was supposed to be a compliment. He slurped up some wine, munched on meat and then added. “I asked your serving man if he would promise his to me, should he perish during Inquisition business.”

“_ What _?” she asked. More sharply than she should have done. 

“In exchange for payment, naturally. A very interesting skull, you can see it even underneath the skin. But he is bald- so I suppose such things are emphasised somewhat.” 

Her fingers tightened around her fork as she fought not to do something she’d regret. 

“And what did he say to that?”

She couldn’t ask Solas himself because he wasn’t at the table. It was her initial naivety that had seen her assuming he would be. But then he hadn’t dressed for dinner and had parted from her in the hall, heading down to the kitchens for supper with the servants.

Leaving her the only rabbit-faced freak in the room. 

“He declined my offer,” said Beauplaisier. 

_ Really? I wonder fucking why. _

Flashfire was the first option, aimed at the cream coloured ruffles about the neck of the human sitting next to her. After that, he’d leap up, screaming in terror and pain, trying to pat out the flames scorching his skin. She’d get the portrait behind him for good measure too. Reducing the ridiculous effigy to nothing but smouldering cinders and ash. 

“But I believe I can wear him down.” 

The second option was simply taking the fork and stabbing it right into the meaty hand placed upon the table. The one still deliberately encroaching upon her personal space.

And what was the worst that would happen, really? 

They were thrown out of this province and the rifts in the apple orchards stayed open, spitting out demons at innocent workers? 

Beauplaisier turned his connections against the Inquisition. And the nobles all followed suit?

Celene refused to listen to them? Corypheus came and killed her? 

And the nightmares in Redcliffe all came to pass?

She managed a weak, “_ hah _, and tried to steer the conversation back to the business at hand. 

It was a stupid mistake bringing him. In all honesty, she’d known it even as she was making it. Vivienne had come- of course- and Cassandra too (she hated it, but her bloodline was too tantalising to the Orlesian nobility) which had granted the Inquisition an air of respectability. Solas wasn’t a logical choice for dealing with a few simple rifts and a lot of Orlesian politics. She knew that. Of course she did.

She’d just really wanted him close. 

It was an impulse that she was going to have to get over quickly- or at least learn to put aside. But things were going well now. All of the considerations, apparently, had been considered, all of the coldness had thawed, the Fallow Mire was _ not _spoken of and she felt as if she were in the swirl of a heady rush where every touch was electric and every kiss was exciting and every time they lay together was a new revelation. 

So what was wrong, really in wanting to bask in that for more than a minute? Before there were rifts and venatori and long treks through the desert away from him?

And- in so doing- she had condemned him the servant’s quarters. 

As soon as she could shake off the other guests, she went there to find him. Their rooms were in a different wing of the house- one that was much less opulently decorated. Instead of rich wooden panelling, the walls were plastered stone, whilst the air was cold and the floor was bare. Her footsteps echoed as she found out the right room, rapping her knuckles on the door. 

Solas looked a little surprised to see her, but she barely took the time to register it before she was launching into apologies:

“Ir abelas, Solas. Ir abelas. I am so, so, sorry,”

He glanced around her, looking up the length of the hall. Satisfied of secrecy, she felt his hand settle on her lower back- still sparking a wave of electricity against her skin- as he gently drew her inside. 

“I knew it would be awful ...but I didn’t think that it would be _ so _…” 

“It has been interesting.”

“That wasn’t the word I was looking for,” she said darkly. 

He shut the door and she took in her surroundings. This room was sparse, with only a cot bed and a table inside of it. Solas travelled lightly, with only his pack, his staff and a book taking up space. She tried to put him into context inside of the servants quarters and found that he looked so extraordinarily out of place everywhere that it almost seemed to loop around, making him seem at home _ anywhere. _

The wave of affection for him that this thought filled her with only fueled the rage burning in the pit of her stomach. 

“You should have been allowed to eat with us. They had room enough at the table for one elf to gawk at. They could have made space for another.”

“I believe that was the point.” Solas reminded her. “The value and the comfort of rarities depends wholly upon them remaining rare. Or at least giving off the appearance of such.” 

She could feel her jaw clenching and her nose pulling up as she looked at him, admitting heavily: 

“All the same, I should never have stood for it.”

Solas only touched her cheek, the lightest pressure of his fingertips smoothing out some of the tension in her frown. 

“There was little else you could do. Not without risking the support you need from this territory, ” he pointed out, and the lightness in his tone matched his fingers perfectly. He wasn’t angry at all. How could he not be angry at all? “But at least you stood tall,” Solas went on. “And you were witty and bright. The Duke was impressed.”

Now she saw that he was teasing her. The hint of it was in the corner of his half bemused and half-amused little smile. 

“Because I stayed quiet for the most part and I laughed at his racist jokes,” she confessed, feeling like the worst kind of spineless sham. Then she frowned. “But how could you possibly know that Beauplaisir liked me? You weren’t there.” 

“There were servants in the dining room,” he reminded her. Because of course there were- though the nobles hardly even glanced at them. She had almost forgotten to look tonight, but she vowed to remember. “After each course, they would come down to the kitchens and gossip with those who were dining. They know their employers more intimately than you can imagine, and there is a whole society below the stairs. Complete with its own complicated rules of conduct.” 

He made the lives of footmen and scullery maids sound as interesting as memories and spirits and she sat down on the bed, tucking one leg under her body.

“What kind of rules of conduct?”

In truth, she knew as little of these elves as she did of the humans they served. If someone from her clan, like her cousins or one of the hunters, had come across them, they probably would have sneered. 

She watched Solas consider which details might be of interest to her. 

“They wait around the table until the butler sits down and they can do the same. He carves the meat, the housekeeper serves the vegetables, and they hand out the plates by order of seniority.”

“Well, that sounds pointlessly ritualistic.” 

“It very much has a point. As all rituals do. There is power in the daily reinforcements of hierarchy.” 

“And it makes them complicit in their own subjugation,” she realised bitterly. “It works because it's so insidious.”

“Precisely.” 

She looked at her hand, trying not to sit and stew on such matters, changing the subject and asking, “Was the food as awful as ours? Someone should tell the Orlesians that butter doesn’t count as a spice.” 

“I would have thought the high quantities of milk in everything would have reminded you of your clan.” 

She merely let out a sardonic sort of breath at that gibe, pinching her nose at the point where the mask had been cutting into it for an entire evening. Solas looked thoughtful for a moment before he decided to tell her:

“And the guest’s servants are not addressed by name. The housekeeper insists it is easier when there are so many guests about the house to keep straight.” 

She frowned. 

“How did they address you?”

“By the name of my perceived employer, of course.” 

“They called you _ The Inquisition? _That’s a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?”

“No,” he admitted. “They did not.” 

As she finally wrapped her mind around his meaning, she felt as if she’d been dropped into a bucket of ice.

“Pass the peas would you,_ Lavellan _?” she asked in a low voice. 

“It took some getting used to.” 

“I see,” she managed to force out in a slightly clipped voice after that particular unpleasantness sank in. She smoothed down her dress with a kind of resolve. “Well, I suppose I’m going downstairs to raze this whole house to the ground now.” 

She was joking. Possibly. Or possibly not. As if she meant it, Solas sat down beside her, placed his hand over hers and said, gently: 

“It might wait until the morning.” 

“You don’t deserve to be treated like this. The servants acting as if they can take away your name. That awful Beauplaisier and his skulls. Like your bones are a thing that can be bought.” 

She shook her head and clenched her fist. 

“They wear their fancy clothes, eat their fancy meals and those city elves construct all these rules, but they’ll never have even a_ thimble full _ of your intelligence and your patience and your….”

He stopped her, squeezing her hand and shaking his head. 

“Your rage on my behalf is futile and unproductive, Vhenan. Even if it is…” he smiled faintly. “_ Touching _. But you must remember that Beuplaiser is a tool-”

“-I’ll say.”

“A tool that would serve you well for now. The stonemason is obligated to keep his chisels in good order and good repair, but he is not expected to do much else. And if something better comes along, he can easily discard them.” 

It was not, as his metaphors went, a particularly sensual one. But he sat close, his touch was a memory against her skin, the door was closed and he spoke low and soft. She watched the way his top lip brushed against the bottom through consonants and vowels and her own lips were quite jealous. 

The first kiss she gave him was a light one. 

Little more than a brush against the corner of his mouth, it was phrased like a question. 

It was almost becoming a routine for them now: she asked and he answered. Carefully considering her kiss with the warmth of his touch, building on it with a tender slide of his tongue against hers, opening her eyes to a perspective she had not thought possible with a nip at her skin and the pressure of his body against somewhere secret. 

Breaking the kiss, he looked at her for a fraction of a second and he wore a wicked smile. When he looked at her like that it felt as if they had stumbled upon some sort of clandestine conspiracy together.

Bringing him here, she thought- opening her mouth up to receive deep kisses and unsure whether she had pulled him or if he had pushed her down into the lumpy, feather stuffed, mattress- might not have been so stupid an idea after all. 

She regretted that thought as soon as she made it. Her serving man. Tucked away in a cold room here to _ service _ her. Wearing her name like a brand below the stairs. 

She didn’t voice it. Solas would think she was being ridiculous, of course. It was a rare day when he didn’t hold his head high and his shoulders relaxed and his posture easy amongst humans, elves, enemies, servants or anyone, _ anyone _ at all. 

But maybe she was still too Dalish for this kind of world, and she could only recall the oath of the dales:

_ Never again. _

She couldn’t consciously be complicit in someone else betraying that oath. Whether they believed in it or not. 

Pressing into his body, she ground her hips and found him proud and solid and hard. Another question, it seemed, that he was happy to answer. Solas slipped his arms underneath her, splayed his hands across her backside and crushed her still clothed pelvis against his own, causing a pulse of blood, a squeeze of skin and the intense flare of a muscle memory concerning the slow, wet slide of him moving within her. 

She deviated a little this time, however- interrupting the seemingly inevitable sinking down and down and down of his tongue and his fingers and his cock- to push him _ upwards _ instead. 

And Solas was sitting again, as ruffled as she could manage to make him and unusually pliable in this state. Or perhaps the tilt of his head suggested that he was still firmly in control and curious to see just where she was going with this. 

As she tugged on his pants, he raised his hips for her and she sank onto the floor. 

On her knees, she felt him with her lips, the heat behind them making the head of his cock feel almost cold and as smooth and shining as burnished rock. He tasted like rock too. Like wet pebbles scooped up from the bottom of a river bed and placed into the mouth- half earthy and primitive, half hard and unreal. 

She needed him to know. Even if he didn’t care- she still needed him to know. Orlais was nothing. The humans were nothing. Everyone else might see his ears, the shape of a skull, the shabby clothing he wore...but she….she _ worshipped _ the very ground he walked upon.

_ My Solas, my lover, my love, my pride. _

He stayed very quiet while she sucked at him. When he would place his mouth upon her, he could conjure up all kinds of sound: sometimes she mewled as high as a kitten, sometimes she groaned in the most obscene kind of utterances. But his breath slipped softly out from his nose and where she would have clenched her eyes tight around a wave of pleasure, he kept his open, gazing hot and intense- if a little heavy-lidded- at the drag of her lips up and down along the shaft. 

Reaching out, he scooped her hair to one side, and his hand stayed for a moment in her curls, twining through a strand that sprang up around his fingers.

She caught his eye and a slight smile broke over his lips as he watched her bob her head and try to take in more of him. Her saliva helped the process and- true- she was probably too clumsy and far too inexperienced, but she was a quick study and nothing if not determined. 

And this was staggeringly simple. When one eased into it, when it was accepted, it was the easiest thing in the world. Easy and wonderful. 

Yet complicated and enormous. All at the same time. 

He stroked her cheek. She felt his fingers slide around a rare untattooed part of her vallaslin- one of the inverted curls upon the left, almost entirely black, side of her face. All at once, she felt him stiffen and watched the smile slip so quickly from his face that it could have been coated in thick Orlesian butter. 

“Inquisitor,” he said, with an odd combination of sharp intensity and low thickness to his voice. “Do not kneel.” 

Breaking away from him, she looked down, only half aware of her position on the floor. She sat back on her haunches slightly and admitted, 

“I _ want _ to.” 

Looking up, she saw a coldness encroaching in his eyes that would only lead to him closing off from her again. Like pulling away at Haven- _ it isn’t right, not even here _\- or walking away from her on her balcony or leaving her alone after the first time they made love in the Fallow Mire. 

The problem of her age and her experience- or lack thereof- made him uncomfortable, she was sure of it. But he kept coming back...allowing the kisses and the touches like a series of concessions. 

And why- she asked herself- would that be?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’ll stop. I’m sorry.”

Sharply, he pulled his head up. 

“Vhenan?”

“They called you by my name,” she told the floor. “Your _ employer _. I know what happens, I’m not an idiot. Yes isn’t really yes when there’s no other alternative.”

Clenching and unclenching his right fist, Solas sucked in a breath. And with little warning he slid off the bed and onto his knees, in her mirror image,

“Do you truly think that I have the look of a man who is here, with you, without any choice in the matter?”

“A little,” she had to confess. “This _ is _ the servant’s quarters. And…well…. Apostate. Chantry. Elf. Orlais. Not to mention the Corypheus of it all. I hate to think I’m taking advantage of you, Solas. I just want to protect you from the people who do.” 

Shaking his head almost violently, Solas opened his mouth and then clenched his teeth together, rushing forward like a wave and covering her mouth with his like the tide washing over the shore. 

As he buried his hands into her hair, she grasped at his face with both hands. His breath was louder now- almost ragged as it fell from his throat and into her mouth. She could only let out a few grunts against his lips, high and staccato, in a futile attempt to ameliorate a little of the rising ache at the pit of her stomach. 

It only sharpened when he dipped down to kiss her neck, both of them rising on their knees to get close. Closer than was comfortable, closer than was probably prudent, closer than was strictly safe. 

Flickering kisses and scraping teeth against the soft skin of her collar bone, she shuddered and he found the hem of her blouse, pulling it down over her shoulder, kissing around her vallaslin and then sliding his hand beneath the fabric. A pressure rose and a pressure released as his fingers found her breasts. Her chest was heaving as the whorls of his fingerprints met the whorls around her nipples, circling around and around as they hardened and she burned and burned beneath his touch. 

“Oh for pity’s....how does this…” he broke away and grumbled, her dress an odd sort of puzzle that he was determined to solve, but not quite in the right frame of mind to do so. 

“Have- haven’t you seen how to untie Orlesian clothing in the fade?” she joked- a little breathlessly. 

Whatever diatribe about _ I have wandered wooded pathways and debated matters transcendental with ageless spirits of knowledge. Such fleeting things as ‘Fashion’ fall in and out of favour like the waning of the moons _she expected to hear, it did not come. 

Instead, he stayed silent, narrowing his eyes as his hands worked at the ties of her dress. Then, when she felt her breasts sag slightly against the fabric of her corsetry, she watched him give her what could only be described as a_ smirk _. 

As a rebuttal of sorts, she licked the palm of her hand and closed it firmly around the base of his penis.

Working industriously along the length from her elbows the sound of friction and wetness and sliding foreskin filled the bare servant’s room. His shoulders rose and fell with it for a few moments before he reached forwards, pulling up the layers of froth of her intricate skirts as she parted her legs for him. 

Finding her already dripping, he wasted little time in cupping his hand underneath her cunt, a finger sliding inside of her as his thumb stroked hot spikes across her clitoris. 

Through gasps, she managed to say, “Well…. this...is ...a pretty good solution to my equity issues.” 

“I believe we can do better,” he assured, in a solemn, gravelly sort of voice as she continued stroking him- albeit a little more arrhythmically than before. 

“_ Oh _ , _ uh-uh _...I’m not so sure we can.” 

Laughing, his grey eyes crinkling, Solas pulled his hand from under the skirts.With one smooth motion, his fingers were at his lips and she watched him lick the one that had been inside of her with his tongue. 

“Your argument is compelling,” she murmured weakly.

“And that dress is getting in the way.” 

“I could say the same about your shirt,” she pointed out. 

Solas pressed his lips together, nodding in the kind of thoughtful, supplicating fashion that would have bothered her fifteen minutes ago. Before she could feel the fabric pressing into her nipples and the air against her clitoris like a faded memory of his fingertips. 

Still kneeling on the floor, she watched him pull the shirts over his head, entranced by the slide of cotton over skin. 

Even the bones of him were beautiful. She couldn’t forgive Beauplaisir for wanting to own a part of them- but she could understand the impulse. Underneath skin, she saw the hard curve of his collar bone, and the outline of his ribcage. She took in the way his waist narrowed, the slight jut of his pelvis and built up and out from there. To the flesh, to the muscle and the skin. And the freckles on his shoulders and the feather-and-whispers faint hair beneath his stomach and around his pubic bones that wanted to be touched and traced like the lines of a map that she could follow down and down and down. 

The problem with the pieces, though, was that they paled in comparison with the whole. 

She took him all in. _ Solas _. Kneeling and naked and erect, with the stark and solid draw of desire irradiating from him like a rift pulling at the mark on her hand. 

The blood in her ears pounded his name like a drum. Solas, Solas, Solas.

The looking lasted little more than a heartbeat really, before his hands were at her waist, smoothing up the sides of her dress and then unpeeling her from it. 

The room felt like a dream as she came free from her clothes. An unreal kind of place where the walls and the furnishings were little more than blurred shapes that might all melt away while she wasn’t concentrating. 

But her body felt almost _ more _ than real. 

The sensation came as she watched him taking her in too. Each part of her was hot, each part of her was thrumming. Each part was focused on the moment with the kind of clarity that came from being wide awake.

Time passed with neither of them touching. He had a way of waiting. Right up until the moment she thought she might burst. 

It happened at Haven. It happened the first time he’d said the words. _ Ar lath ma. _ All these tensions swelling up like mana inside of her until all she could do was cast something full of fire. 

Sitting back on the balls of her feet, she felt her legs parting and Solas looked down at the space between her thighs. His head tilted and his eyes drew upwards if she had just asked him something _ fascinating _. The little exhale that just the sight of her seemed to pull out of him was a dangerous, intoxicating, powerful kind of thing, and her chest pounded with wanting. 

She darted forwards, their mouths clashing for a moment before he pulled away and planted a kiss against her neck. First his lips found her clavicle, then they swept to the side, kissing in the spot where the sinews in her neck met her shoulder. With soft, featherlight brushes, he kissed his way around her skin until he was behind her. 

She whimpered. Partly because she could no longer see him, could no longer touch him, partly with the ache that came as he ran his fingers delicately through the space between her breasts, before rubbing the hardened bead of her nipple between thumb and forefinger.

Leaning backwards, the flesh of her arse found his warm cock and she pressed her palms into the ground, feeling each detail as she dragged along him. 

The second exhale he gave her might well have finished her off. He placed his hands on her hips and stroked them gently. Looking over her shoulder, she waited for him to enter her. Found him looking at her, fretting, caught between something present and something that seemed far away. 

She tipped her chin up at him, smiling, but with her eyes crinkled up in concern. 

_ What’s wrong? _

And he knew her enough now to understand her look. Though that almost seemed to make things worse. 

“I…” he began, and then shook his head, stroking her hips idly. “No matter...you are… _ remarkable _, Vhenan.” 

“I assume you’re directing this between my legs?”

“No,” he said with the deepest sincerity. “No. Of course not,” he ducked his head and kissed the dip of her spine. “Of course not,” he repeated, as he kissed a line along her back, down towards her thighs. He paused, and added, “_ Although _...”

“Although?” she asked him. 

As was custom, he answered with a kiss. This one deep and damp and warm, pressed into her cunt. His tongue delved inside of her, his lips upon her flesh and she moaned loudly. 

The churning soup of sensation was almost astounding. In one moment, she was wet and filthy, her hips bucking as the animal in her begged to be fucked by his tongue. In the same moment, she was filled up with warmth and trembling tenderness and she loved him, she loved him,_ she loved him _. 

Barely aware of it, she was pulled back, Solas somehow sliding underneath her as she remained dazed and pliable, unable to concentrate on much but each blazing, crystal clear, part of his tongue. 

“Equity,” he announced, his hot breath prickling her pubic hair.

She looked down to find his cock in front of her face. 

“Clever man.” 

And he might have tried to laugh, but she bent her head to take him, the extraordinary angle of them like an endless loop. It went around and around for an eternity, like a creature with many hands made for touching, many mouths made for kissing, and a tangle of burning limbs and desperate souls. 

She wasn’t sure who was setting the pace, but her mouth on him matched the rhythm of his mouth on her, there was blood like a drum in her ears, stars bursting underneath her skin and they were hand in hand, walking together into an unreal sort of reality. 

* * *

In the haze of a sticky aftermath, she breathed heavily, happy to bask in the leftover warmth of whatever had burned moments before. But as she settled into herself, she became more aware of the room. And of the stones beneath her back. 

“We’re on the floor,” she laughed. “I’m _ touching _the bed. But we’re on the floor.” 

“An astute observation, as always, Inquisitor,” Solas told the ceiling. He was on his back too, a hand placed across his middle, lying as if laid out for burial, his shoulder only barely touching hers. His voice was low with exhaustion and she loved it. 

“I suppose it must be your wandering apostate sensibilities that make you almost incapable of being with me in a bed.”

He chuckled, with a little bit of a snort, “I rather think it is more likely to be your Dalish ones.” 

“No. No. My clan sleeps on mattresses. I had a pillow all my own. Sleeping in a bush on the cold hard ground is more you, my austere fade expert.”

“That sounds delightful,” Solas admitted, his eyes slowly closing. 

“Pining for your ruins and giant spiders?”

“For dreams of ancient memories,” he murmured. “Under stars older than us all.” 

Gods, but she could do nothing but turn to kiss him when he spoke like that. And it saved her from asking something embarrassing or silly, something like ..._ Will you promise to take me with you? When this is done. All I want from the future is the chance to see your stars. _

Pulling away, she found something tart on her tongue. Ripe fruit against the memory of stones. 

“Huh. You taste like... me, I suppose.” 

“Then you must taste like me,” he said sleepily as she settled against him. 

“Mmm…” she smiled. “Equity indeed. Now we’re completely the same.” 

At this, she felt the sharp intake of breath through his chest. Eyes clamped shut, Solas tensed for a moment, but she could feel his fatigue as his shoulders slumped again, accepting the weight of her head and her thigh slung across him. 

Too tired to overthink the moment, she guessed. 

_The man has been_ _thoroughly fucked_. 

Then, gently, his fingers found hers, and he pulled them up towards his heart.

And that was where he kept them. No higher, no lower. Just right there- at the very centre of him. 


End file.
